


I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Past trauma / torture implied, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold said, “John, it’s me, it’s fine, you’re safe, you’re safe, <i>you’re safe</i>,” and fought down the sudden flash of panic, his own survival instincts kicking in and telling him to <i>run, run run.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nightwolf for being the best. 
> 
> Based on an anonymous prompt at my tumblr: "John has night terrors while sleeping/seeks comfort while mostly/still asleep". Thanks, anon!
> 
> Title from “Elastic Heart” by Sia.
> 
> Chinese translation by LaLaLa_deepnight available [here.](http://cindyzhou-0112.lofter.com/post/428cef_7a572f1)

Insomnia has been Harold’s companion for many years, so the the glowing red digits in the dark showing _3:32_ are only a mild surprise.

He turns onto his side, careful of his hip and back.

There’s a steadily simmering pain in his spine like a long, slow burn.

Harold is breathing, in and out, making an effort to relax the muscles that have already tensed up in anticipation of the sharp burn.

John never sleeps on his back.

He sleeps folded in on himself, curled up in the fetal position or flat on his stomach, offering no point of vulnerability.

Harold doesn’t take it as a comment on the sleeping arrangements, the idea that John doesn’t trust him is, at this point, ludicrous at best.

Still it _stung_ , the first time John shuddered in his sleep, kicking and mumbling half-words:

When Harold reached for him, John flinched away from his hands.

 

\--

 

There was, of course, the night they never talk about:

When John’s mind took him back into the darkness of his own history and John woke up drenched in sweat and with his right palm pressed against Harold’s throat.

John was looming over him, eyes unfocused, and the pressure against Harold’s throat wasn’t so much painful as frightening.

Harold said, “John, it’s me, it’s fine, you’re safe, you’re safe, _you’re safe_ ,” and fought down the sudden flash of panic, his own survival instincts kicking in and telling him to _run, run run._

What a strange thing, biology and instinct:

For a moment Harold’s breath stopped in his throat and his body was frozen in shock, and then John’s heavy-lidded eyes opened all the way, his hand falling away from Harold’s throat.

John’s eyes widened and he scrambled away from him, and Harold let him put as much distance between them as he needed, said “It’s alright, you didn’t hurt me, _John_ , it’s fine.”

Still he could see that John was sick with the horror of imagining that he might snap out of a nightmare and _hurt Harold_ , his hands shaking violently, sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his skin.

“Look, I shouldn’t -- The couch, I’m just going to--“ John stammered, moving to get out of bed, and Harold grabbed his wrist and kept him there, kept him right next to him until John shuddered and said Harold’s name like something sacred on his lips, and Harold pulled him close, folded him up into his arms, murmured soothingly to him until John was weeping in his arms.

 

\--

 

John stirs next to him, kicking the covers away, and Harold turns to the nightstand to switch on the light and put on his glasses.

He knows better than to _touch,_ now.

Harold sits up a little while John’s breathing speeds up, his hands clenching in the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut.

Sometimes he says a name, _Kara_ or _Mark_ or _Jessica_. On the bad nights, it’s _No_ or _Please_ over and over until he manages to snap out of it.

Once, it was _Joss_ , a single, desperate scream, and Harold’s own hands were shaking when he pulled John into an embrace later, the rapid-fire beat of John’s heart against Harold’s chest like bullets from a gun.

Harold waits for it to play out, and sure enough, after a few minutes, John gasps, his grip on the sheets white-knuckled. He startles awake with a full-body jerk, blinking rapidly.

“John? You were dreaming, you’re at your apartment. It’s 3:40 in the morning, everything is fine,” Harold says, voice low and gentle.

He makes an effort to keep his distance, let John rebuild whatever defenses he might need.

John takes a deep, shuddering breath, looking up at Harold with groggy eyes.

The dark hair in the back of John’s neck is curling with sweat, and John carefully lets go of the sheets he has been holding on to, flexing his hands.

Harold grabs the bottle of water from his nightstand and holds it out to John.

John takes it, tongue unconsciously wetting his dry lips. He removes the cap and drinks in large gulps, the muscles of his throat working every time he swallows.

Once he’s done, he screws the plastic cap back on and hands the bottle back, crossing the distance between them until he’s pressed up against Harold’s side.

Harold puts the bottle away and lets one hand come down to stroke John’s head, light, careful touches.

“Did I wake you?” John rasps, his voice still rough with sleep.

“I was awake already, actually. Trying to figure out a way to cut down on the power usage, probably implementing some kind of back-up generator in case of an unexpected power surge.”

Harold has learned that there is no point in asking John about the details of his dreams:

He will tell him, in his own time, or he won’t. There’s really no point in pushing, Harold feels.

He pulls up the sheet to cover John’s back, and John snuggles closer, craving skin-on-skin.

John has his head pillowed on Harold’s chest, and Harold counts the minutes it takes for John’s breathing to slow down.

John shifts even closer, crawling half on top of him, one leg thrown over Harold’s.

Harold slides his right hand under the sheet to stroke soothing circles over John’s naked back, and John hums in approval, his hand absently playing with Harold’s chest hair.

John’s breath is warm against Harold’s skin, and Harold gets his free hand under John’s chin and turns it up so he can press a kiss against John’s lips.

John shifts next to him, supporting himself on one arm so his weight won’t be resting on Harold and leans in again. His mouth opens under Harold’s, and then John’s tongue is in his mouth, the kiss turning from gentle to desperate in mere moments.

Harold’s hands come up to stroke John’s shoulders, one thumb pressing against the sensitive spot just below the hairline, and John sighs, breaking the kiss so he can nuzzle Harold’s throat, licking that spot at the juncture of neck and shoulder that makes Harold shiver.

“We should try to go back to sleep,” Harold mumbles, his hand wandering all the way down John’s spine, thumb circling the vertebrae, stroking the small of his back.

“’m not sleepy,” John says where he is pressing kisses against the line of Harold’s collarbone.

“John, maybe we should--“

“I don’t want to talk about it,” John says, kissing his way down Harold’s sternum, nosing into the soft hair on his chest.

“You don’t _have to_ ,” Harold says, instantly. “I just -- Maybe this isn’t the best way to deal with these things, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, I think it’s a great coping mechanism, actually,” John says, making steady progress down Harold’s body until he has reached Harold’s hips.

“ _John,_ ” Harold says, hands coming up to stroke John’s soft hair, torn between getting John to talk and asking him to keep doing what he’s… doing.

Harold sighs deeply at the first touch of John’s warm mouth against the front of his boxers.

John sucks and licks at the silk until it’s wet, breathing warmly against the outline of Harold’s cock, and Harold can feel himself slowly growing hard under the delicious wet heat.

Harold lets his head sink back for a moment, the wet fabric sliding against his skin where John is sucking his cock into his mouth, and then Harold curses softly and grabs John’s shoulders.

He isn’t physically able to drag John anywhere he doesn’t want to go, but John is pliant beneath his hands and lets himself be led, stretching out over Harold’s body and balancing his weight on his arms next to him.

Harold kisses him again, to gain some time to gather the thoughts in his head, let the abrupt spike of arousal pass. John’s body is sliding against him, completely naked, which makes it rather difficult to figure out _speech._

Finally, Harold puts a hand on the side of John’s face to guide him back a little and keep him in position, thumb coming to rest close to his ear.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Harold says, and John quickly averts his gaze.

_“John,”_ Harold says, as gently as he can manage, and John swallows and looks back at him.

He looks tired - eyes bloodshot, pale skin and stubble on his chin -, and Harold instantly regrets being so caught up in his own affairs that he didn’t even notice John’s exhaustion when he came back from a late stakeout and went straight to bed.

“Tell me what you need,” Harold says, and something complicated happens on John’s face.

“And don’t try to distract me with a blowjob,” Harold adds, trying for his best affronted facial expression, and John snorts and relaxes a fraction.

“I need… to feel something. Something else, than -- It always feels so _real_ , you know? Even things that never happened, even when I know I’m not really there, it just makes my skin crawl.”

He licks his lips, his gaze wandering over the sheets, down to his own hands before he manages to look up at Harold again.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this, so, I guess - I like to make sure that I get to make you feel good, at least,” he admits, and for a moment Harold’s throat feels so tight that he has trouble getting enough air in to speak.

“You’re -- you think that witnessing you struggle with the aftermath of severe trauma is a hardship for _me_?” Harold asks incredulously.

John looks at him in vague confusion, and for a moment Harold wants nothing more than to buy some property in a secluded location, somewhere with a nice climate, and keep John safe and whole and happy - a morning swim in the ocean, running on the beach with Bear, long afternoons stretched out in the sun.

John reaches for his hand and the sudden touch pulls Harold back into the present.

“John, there is nothing that you have to make up to me. I’ll happily give whatever you ask for, whatever you need, just -- be honest with me.”

John’s lips twitch, like he can’t quite manage a smile, and his eyes look glassy.

Harold leans in to press a kiss against John’s forehead.

“I love you, please let me take care of you,” Harold says, voice breaking on the words, and John makes a low sound in his throat and kisses him, urgent and messy.

Harold’s hands stroke down from John’s shoulders to his wrists until he is letting himself relax under Harold’s hands.

“Can you touch me some more?” John asks, when they part, and Harold smiles and puts his hands all over him, gentle, soothing touches, until John is tucked up firmly against him with his eyes closed.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of a morning blowjob tomorrow, though,” John says, yawning, and Harold chuckles.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, John. Is there something else you need?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of John’s head.

“Tell me something. Anything,” John says, his voice already heavy with sleep.

Harold tries to think of something, and then, suddenly:

“My father taught me how to fix an engine,” he hears himself say. _Oh._

He’s surprised by the way the words come out: Rolling off his tongue easily, a gift freely given.

He takes off his glasses and folds them neatly on the table, then he reaches for the light switch.

“Can you --“ John says, roughly, and Harold says “Of course, John,” and leaves the light on.

“I was more interested in taking it apart and looking at all the parts, how they fit together,” Harold says.

If he closes his eyes, he can see it all:

The metal tools on the wall, his father’s hands, covered in grease and oil, his kind smile.

John huffs a little laugh against his chest.

“Hmm, ‘course you would be.”

Harold takes a deep breath and starts talking:

About the house he grew up in, the school he went to, the people he met. He keeps talking even after John’s heartbeat is calm and steady against his ribcage, after he has fallen asleep in Harold’s arms.

 

\--

 

When Harold opens his eyes, John is spread out on his back, his head still resting against Harold’s shoulder, and Harold reaches over to turn off the alarm before he shifts closer to John and lets himself drift off to sleep.

 

 

\-- fin

 


End file.
